


A Game of (not exactly) Wit

by DerRumtreiber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, kink bingo, sorta kinda medical kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerRumtreiber/pseuds/DerRumtreiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Kink Bingo PromptFest (and amnesty) (John gives Sherlock a medical exam, throwing in enough sex and kink to keep him from getting bored)</p><p>"John Watson can employ his own brand of cunning when the situation calls, and even Sherlock tends to acquiesce quicker than usual that this sort of thing – the (living) human body – is John’s domain."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game of (not exactly) Wit

It’s never been easy to get Sherlock to sit still when he doesn’t want to. Nor has it ever been advisable to lay hands on him when he is sitting still of his own volition. If Sherlock is still then Sherlock is thinking, and to even be in his space, breathing his air, is an affront to his deductive processes.

 

Still, John Watson can employ his own brand of cunning when the situation calls, and even Sherlock tends to acquiesce quicker than usual that this sort of thing – the (living) human body – is John’s domain. (Sherlock’s obsession with cadavers, human brains, disembodied eyes and squishy inside parts – that he can keep).

 

And they’ve been flatmates (colleagues) friends (more?) for long enough that it takes only a minimum effort (relatively speaking) to force Sherlock to sit still and let John do. his. job. Now.

 

The requisite bickering lasts only to the landing outside their parlor, and then even Sherlock shuts up, eyes alight with a curiosity that asks John ‘How do you intend to try and amuse me into submission today?’ As if John is doing this for his own benefit alone (he is (maybe)). As if Sherlock expects John to live up to his own obscene standards of wit (he does – and John might).

 

The protests are nominal. Part of a game, a dance, that Sherlock has begrudgingly played his whole life and that John has just learned, with rules that Sherlock has changed (will continue to change) just for John.

 

“For the love of – you were shot at, Sherlock,” John hisses as they pass Mrs. Hudson on the steps.

 

Even she’s given up fighting Sherlock when it comes to his own health. Like the only one who cares about Sherlock’s body is John. (A vessel, John. Just a vessel.)

 

“Yes, John. Shot _at_. Not shot. I should think a man with your expertise would know the difference quite intimately.”

 

Still, Sherlock lets John lead him to the kitchen table. Waits while John clears off tea cups, newspaper, jars of embalming fluid and – John doesn’t need to know. It goes in the fridge anyway.

 

He brings the newspaper back with him after a second glance, spreads front page, international, weather, obits across the shiny table top. He smoothes the pages, fingers the headlines.

 

“I’ll get my kit,” he tells Sherlock. “Shirt and trousers before I’m back.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t move, still in his coat, but John brushes past all the same and when he’s back, Sherlock’s done as he was told. ‘Only because I wanted to’ his narrowed gaze says. (Only because you asked).

 

They had a discussion, once, months ago now. Drunk (nearly), maudlin (Sherlock), wherein John was forced to admit as always that yes, Sherlock is the most brilliant mind he’s met. Wherein they were both forced to admit that, for all Sherlock knows of the human body, he knows so little of his own.

 

( _“How was I to know?” angry. mortified. (curious). “Dead bodies don’t talk John. No brain functions to monitor.”_

_“You have a body of your own, haven’t you?” John asks._

_Sherlock does. John is sprawled over it. It was an accident (mostly)._

_“Yes but it’s never – I haven’t – this is different,” Sherlock’s voice is young and lost and strained (calculating, still, though, always). “Why is this different. What makes this so different?”_

_“Because you like me, Sherlock,” John answers gently._

_(John with the answers for once, Sherlock trailing behind, desperate to catch up.))_

Now it’s a game. But this game is John’s, and he changes the rules for Sherlock, guides him along with steady hands, undying patience. (‘Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?’ ‘You're the second person to say that to me today’ ‘Who was the first?’)

 

John’s hands go first to Sherlock’s neck. “Check your pulse,” he says, feels for the _thrum- thrum_ beneath his fingertips, doesn’t bother looking at his watch, or even counting.

 

“Slightly elevated, calming quickly, probably between 70 and 75 beats per minute,” Sherlock supplies for him.

 

“Wrong,” John corrects. “Still elevated, not calming,” he moves his thumbs to trace Sherlock’s chin, the sharp jut of his jaw, tilted up; Slides his hands back to cup at Sherlock’s head, right below his ears, hair wispy and cold and London-wet. “You’re alive.” (You’re hot; you’re breathing; you’re brilliant, beautiful; human).

 

“Brilliant deduction, Dr. Watson.”

 

They’ve played this game often enough that Sherlock’s eyes don’t widen any more, his breathing calm. They’ve played it seldom enough that John can feel the heat blossom and drum beneath his palms as Sherlock’s heart continues to race. Even Sherlock can’t control his heart (or doesn’t want to?).

 

“Let me hear you breathe,” John says, hands pulling back from Sherlock’s neck to unloop the stethoscope from round his own; cold metal to skin, a tiny hiss through barely gritted teeth; warm fingers brushing just over the edge of the chest piece.

 

Sherlock likes this. He likes the press of hands to his body, thrills in the excuse of ‘necessary precautions’ and a nervous pulse against his own. He likes that John likes it, too, and John’s sure that’s the only reason he’s allowed to continue.

 

It takes less than five minutes, altogether. Pupil dilation – normal. Skin – normal (warm, palms a little clammy, face a little flushed, goosebumps pricking in the chilly flat). No sprained joints, no broken bones (just a full bodied shiver as John runs his hands solidly down Sherlock’s sides, thumbs tracing rib trenches and muscle (meant to be hidden last time – this time all for show because Sherlock has learned that John will shiver back)). No pulled muscles, just strong flanks, lean calves (ticklish skin beneath the knees).

 

Reflexes excellent, as always.

 

“Are you done?” Sherlock asks, bored (alight, uncomfortable – not used to being touched. How to deal with stimuli, still uncharted territory.)

 

“Yes.”

 

“Diagnosis is still alive?”

 

John smiles. Sherlock’s mouth twitches up.

 

“Yes,” John says. “Very much so.”

 

Now Sherlock’s smile is real, too. Conniving. Dangerous.

 

“Good. Your turn.”


End file.
